


Five Gifts

by stefi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefi/pseuds/stefi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor gives Sansa five gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Gifts

**i.**

 _Fuck me, she hates it_ , Sandor thought.

 

Sansa’s forced grin wasn’t convincing in the very least. She’d need to get better at pretending than this if she was going to survive under Joffrey’s roof.

 

“It’s a rare vintage,” he explained. “All the way from the Summer Isles.”

 

Sansa nodded. “It’s very sour.” She looked as if she didn’t know what to do with the wine he’d given her. It was the only present she received for her 13th name day and she didn’t want to appear ungrateful.

 

Sandor frowned. “Why in the Seven Hells do you think it’s called Summer Sour?” He snatched the flagon away from the girl and took a sip straight from it. “Stupid little bird.”

 

 **ii.**

 

“Oh! Where ever did you find these?” Sansa exclaimed, delight written all over her face.

 

Sandor couldn’t help but smile slightly. He felt the ruined side of his face twitch. “Where do you think I found them? The black cells?”

 

Sansa shrank away from him. “I didn’t mean any-“

 

“The kitchens, girl.” He said quietly. “I had the cook make them for you.”

 

Sansa looked down at the small plate of lemon cakes and plucked one up. “They’re my favorite, you know.”

 

Of course he knew.

 

“Won’t you have one?” Sansa asked, offering the sweet dessert to him.

 

Sandor never cared for sweets much. He preferred his drink. _What harm can come from humoring the little bird?_ He sank back in the lone chair that could accommodate him in the little bird’s room and shrugged. “I suppose I should be sure it isn’t poisoned first, isn’t that right?” He smirked sarcastically at her.

 

Sansa flushed. “That’s not- I only meant that-“

 

“I’m fucking with you, girl,” he laughed. “I’ll taste one of your cakes.”

 

Sansa held her nose in the air. “One of my _lemon_ cakes,” she corrected him. She presented the cake to him and gasped, scandalized when he took it from her fingers with his mouth.

 

After swallowing the cake down, Sandor asked “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me if--“

 

Sansa’s eyes widened as she saw Sandor’s head fall limply onto his shoulder. She rushed to his side and shook his massive arm. “Mother’s Mercy, no!” She slapped his stubble-covered cheek in a panic. “Sandor! Sandor wake up! Oh _please_ wake up!”

 

Sandor opened his eyes and barked out a harsh laugh. He curled his long fingers around Sansa’s wrist and shook his head. “How dare you strike me, girl?” he asked, but his voice held no malice.

 

Sansa regarded him for a moment in silence before laughing lightly as well. “I don’t suppose you want another?”

 

 **iii.**

 

Sansa gasped at the sight before her. It had been such a trying evening. Green fire lit the keep in even its darkest alleyways. When she retired to her rooms, the last thing she had expected was a drunk Hound in her bed. Even less expected was the dagger he put to her throat.

 

“Cut your hair,” was all he’d said and of course she refused. “I’ll cut it my damn self, then.” And he did.

 

So bereft was Sansa for her beautiful hair, she hadn’t even registered what was happening as the Hound dragged her through the long corridors of Maegor’s, all through the Red Keep, and down to the stables.

 

She balked when she saw his fearsome, blasphemously named warhorse. “What are you planning to-“ she was cut off when Stranger snapped at her curiously out stretched hand. “He tried to bite me!”

 

“He’ll do more than bite you if you get any closer, little bird.” Sandor warned her as he saddled a mare in the stable nearby. “He doesn’t like anybody but me.”

 

Sansa wanted to ask him why, but Sandor guided the chestnut mare out of the stables and presented her to Sansa. “Your mount, little bird.”

 

“I am not a very skilled rider, I don’t-“

 

“You’ll learn,” Sandor said. “Get on.”

 

Sansa fretted with the stirrup and looked helplessly to Sandor. “She’s too tall for me to climb on.”

 

Sandor shook his head and lifted Sansa by her waist onto the horse. “Not another peep out of you until we leave. Understand?” He threw a saddle blanket into her lap. “Wear that over your head.”

 

 

 **iv.**

 

“You will do as I say or both our heads will end up on pikes!” Sandor thundered.

 

“At least _then_ I’d be beside some of my family!” Sansa shot back.

 

Sandor paced around their campsite, furious. “We’re not making for the Twins and that is final.”

 

“It’s but a few hours’s ride. You even said so. My lady mother is there! And Robb!” Sansa argued through angry tears. “Northmen and Tully bannermen alike! How dare you keep me from them. You _said_ you’d keep me safe. I’m safe with my family!”

 

“It’s too dark and too far. In the morning I will take you to the Twins.”

 

Sansa lay on her bedroll, facing away from Sandor. “I’m going to miss Uncle Edmure’s wedding feast,” she said miserably.

 

“I’m sure you’ll survive the horrors of missing a buggering _feast_ ,” he spat before taking a sip from his wineskin. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

 

 **v.**

 

Sansa frowned and plucked at the skirts of brown roughspun. “This isn’t what I had imagined when you said you’d gotten me a present, Sandor.”

 

They weren’t the finest skirts in the Neck, but they were at least clean. Surely she could see the practicality of it. Sandor only smiled and shook his head at his silly little bird. “That’s not the present.”

 

Sansa cocked her head to the side. “It’s not?”

 

“Take the dress out of the box,” Sandor commanded.

 

She did as she was told. Beneath the shabby, but sensible dress lay a fine white cloak trimmed with grey fur. Sansa gasped as she pulled the cloak from the box to study the sigil embroidered onto the back.

 

“Sandor, this is a maiden’s cloak,” she whispered.

 

“Aye,” he agreed. “I figured the next time I give you my cloak I’d do it properly and remove yours first.”

 

 

  


End file.
